


To Salt the Earth

by TheGreatPestilence



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: A make-it-worse-It, Gen, Joker-centric, Not A Fix-It, Post-Movie, Romance is mostly marginal, Sort Of, Violence, way too many OCs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 14:26:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30023142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreatPestilence/pseuds/TheGreatPestilence
Summary: Gotham does not realize what it has created.Joker doesn't know it yet either.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Original Female Character(s)





	To Salt the Earth

**Author's Note:**

> This story begins right after the riot scene with J on top of the cop car. I haven't yet decided how I will allude to the final scene of the film. The plot decidedly focuses on Arthur's progress as a criminal and it will be sloooooow, so bear with me. If I ever finish this goddamn thing, it will also be fucking huge. There will be more OCs than in the furry tag of DeviantArt, but only a few of them will be important. I'll try not to include them much, 'cause nobody likes that shit.  
> I must say that this is particularly hard to write, because I am not: 1. A man, 2. A criminal, 3. Mentally ill, 4. American, 5. Someone who was alive in the 80s, 6. A talented writer, 7. Someone who knows a whole lot about the complexity of human psyche. I can only promise I am doing my best to make it readable.  
> Enjoy!

The flames.

The screaming.

The tang of blood on his tongue and all around him.

He had never felt so alive.

The air quivered with rage as wisps of smoke wrapped him and the seething mass below in a hellish mist, and Joker was floating. Lights flickered through the haze, painting it with ephemeral strokes of the most splendid shades – a lauding, vivid reflection of his own. He absorbed the roars of the crowd with relish, the feeling of them caressing his broken body delectable like the touch of hungry lovers. Their song was harsh, disjointed and deafening, drowning out what may have remained of reason’s cries.

Detached from the confines of what had been, weightless and finally, _finally_ free, Joker tingled with the glory of it all. For so long he had been trying to bring a bit of light into the hopeless dreariness of the city, wishing that if he could, he too would be able to feel the warmth. He’d never thought it would be the light of flares and beacons, screams instead of laughter, a purging inferno instead of golden rays on his skin.

He had been going wrong about it all these years. It was blood they wanted, and they would drink it from his hands if he gave it to them. They would spill more if he demanded the offering himself.

He brought his arms forward and up repeatedly, coaxing a new surge of music from the people, the bliss and the pain making his heart flutter. Overwhelmed by how eagerly they responded to his conducting, how they lapped up the smallest gestures, he turned his face towards the night sky and breathed out a soft, sobbing laugh, the sound lost in the madness.

Immense relief washed over him as the tears burning his eyes finally spilled, joining the stains on his cheeks. He wished this moment could last forever, _prayed_ it wasn’t a dream, until another twinge of agony deep within reminded him that it was not; in dreams of love, he never hurt.

 _Love_. So this was what it really felt like.

More tears trickled down his face to mix with paint vestiges and bloody smears. He took in the crowd again, and through his blurred sight the scene became a wildly shifting, kaleidoscopic mosaic, making him feel like he was spinning with it. The bright lights bled into each other and spread, enveloping the scene in phantom, iridescent fire; familiar shapes twisted into unrecognizable abominations, sound, color and smell angrily churning around him in a vortex, threatening to swallow him whole. He _wanted_ it to, wanted to be lifted off his feet and never touch the ground again. What a finale it would be, to dissipate into nothingness in a dazzling flash before his enamored audience, forever leaving an impression on the world. How infinitely grander than what could have been….

All too soon, before he could truly savor the beautiful image, it dispersed when his body tilted precariously and he was brought back to Earth, still a slave to instincts.

As he steadied himself and shook his head to clear it, pain insistently reminding him of its presence, he began to distinguish what was being yelled at him. Mostly it was ‘Joker’, with varying levels of exultation, but some went with ‘Arthur’. He chortled at that, bloody spit dripping from his mouth; that had never been his true name, but none of these people knew it. _He_ didn’t know his name, or if he’d ever had one.

He would have been buried as Arthur Fleck, next to Penny – the woman who allowed his unmaking ‒ or maybe as a John Doe so his grave wouldn’t be turned into a site of worship. Maybe they would have just thrown his brain-free body straight into the street for the rats to feast on and spread him like a disease all over Gotham.

Giggling at the thought, he leaned to bow for his audience when there was an abrupt change in it. People in the back started scattering and sharp snaps of gunfire soon broke the spell completely, the roars picking up in response.

Before he could react, Joker was yanked from the car, and he would have certainly crashed into the crowd if it wasn’t for the net of hands that intercepted him. The moment he found his footing, he was swept along by an angry river. Gone was the reverence with which they had gazed upon him just seconds ago ‒ now he was just one clown in a mad stampede of clowns. An unknown hand was tightly clasped around his, pulling him insistently; in the smoky chaos, Arthur could just barely tell it was a tall, burly man in a clown mask, his step impossible to align with.

Joker’s body burned, the day’s abuse finally taking its toll; all the adrenaline in the world could not allow him to sustain the breakneck pace for long. A vice was tightening around him with every ungainly leap. He stumbled over a piece of debris but did not fall, the hand holding on firmly. He did not even wonder who this stranger was, only feeling glad he had something to keep him on his feet.

Gasping for air, he glanced around briefly; the flow of people was decreasing, many having fled down adjacent streets and alleyways. Though the riots were still going strong, the sounds of gunfire and police cars have become distant, still too close for comfort but apparently far enough for his body to decide it was done with him.

His lungs all but closed, his legs disconnected from his brain, and this time the hand could not steady him. For a moment all he saw was blackness; the next thing he knew, he was being righted against a wall. Lucidity came and went in dizzying waves.

“Hey! You with us, man?” yelled the masked stranger as he held Joker by the arms.

“Mhm,” Arthur mumbled, his bleary eyes moving to the three men accompanying them. Two were also on the sturdy side, the third even shorter than him; all had painted faces. That was the extent of what he was able to note before the void tried to claim him again, his knees buckling and eyes rolling back. The stranger kept him upright with ease.

“Shit, he’s in a bad shape,” cursed one of the men. “He was dancing just five fucking minutes ago, what the hell!”

“People can do wild shit when they get fucked up like that,” another said.

Barely aware of his surroundings anymore, Joker could only mutter incoherently, not really knowing what he was trying to say. He vaguely heard the stranger say something to the men, felt the grip shifting, his chin being lifted and the plastic mask coming closer; he tried to move away from the touch and the face, but he didn’t have the strength. If he was released now, he would have collapsed into the center of the Earth. Part of him wanted to, because then at least he wouldn’t be at the mercy of four men he’d never met before.

But they _were_ from his audience, were they not? They wouldn’t betray him. He had to believe that.

The stranger pulled him away from the wall and put Arthur’s limp left arm over his shoulders, encircling the lithe man with his own arm. With nearly all of his meager weight supported, it took little effort for Joker to start walking.

“Alright, pal. Let’s get you outta here,” said the masked man quietly, checking the street for curious eyes, but the rioters were far too absorbed to notice them. He nodded at his friends, and the group hurriedly began moving down the street, away from the mayhem.

Arthur had no choice but to move with them. Where else _could_ he have gone?

-

_Jesus Christ._

_What the fuck has just happened?_

Michael’s whole body was trembling as he made his way back through the studio building, desperate for somewhere quiet to sit down. People kept passing him in a rush in the tight corridors, most of them cops and paramedics, at the moment too busy to pay any attention to him. Traumatized audience members sat or stood by the walls, quietly consoling each other; nobody tried to usher them out of the way and outside because of what was unfolding there – of what he had just personally witnessed.

Driven by an unknown force, Michael had joined the few that followed the policemen removing Joker from the building, the man’s shrill cackling continuing all the way. The sound had made Michael’s ears ring and his stomach turn, but not once did he even think of staying back. Only when their emergence caused an explosion of roars in the street and the reporters flocking around the door began shoving microphones into everyone’s faces did he sober up a bit, but not quick enough to retreat unseen.

“Why did you do it?” they had screamed in Joker’s face, eliciting another bout of manic laughter. Bathed in blinding camera flashes, his bright colors stood out with cartoonish starkness, inevitably drawing every eye, which had to be exactly what he wanted.

“Sir, were you there when the shooting happened?” a reporter accosted Michael, and he took that as his cue to hightail it. Quickly abandoning the idea of hiding in the crowd, he had pushed back towards the entrance, casting one last look at the murderer. Joker was now keenly eyeing the gathering from the police car, his red mouth open in a wide, toothy smile, but even from where he’d stood, Michael could tell the man’s cheeks were streaked with tears.

Now that he was back inside, in comparative silence, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He bumped into someone and didn’t look twice at them, simply walking on, wanting to avoid having to talk to anybody. He ended up in a calmer wing, where he plopped down on the first stretch of carpeting, running a hand over his face and through his short, black hair.

Murray Franklin was dead, and he’d watched him get murdered.

He had seen the host’s brain vacate his skull and paint the wall behind him.

He had felt the indignation of dozens of people turn into horror in a matter of seconds.

He had witnessed a man who seemed to not belong in this world become the most real thing in existence.

Michael shuddered. Arthur was his name, wasn’t it? Such an unfittingly regular one that may have suited the man from the video clip, stumbling over his words and laughing like a fool, but what had emerged dancing from behind the curtain did not resemble that person in the slightest. How had nobody realized they were dealing with a live explosive disguised as a toy one was beyond Michael, because he’d felt something was off the moment he saw the painted face.

All the same, he had been captivated. The audience applauded the flamboyant entrance, but all he could do was stare, his hands stayed by a confusing mix of concern and fascination. It was when Joker had started speaking that a sense of unbidden familiarity reared its head, and Michael’s mind was taken back to years prior.

Suddenly, he wasn’t looking at an unknown, adult man in makeup, but somebody he had failed when they needed him most, somebody he’d shared laughs with soon before he lost them forever. He relived his subsequent ineptitude, his inability to make justice triumph, and all of it came crashing down on him because of the clown.

The wistfulness was over when the confession came.

Michael had known something horrible was going to happen in the studio long before it did, but it was not what he had suspected. A part of him that he had no idea existed was glad he’d been wrong, and the thought made him sick.

People did _not_ deserve to die for being inconsiderate, and whoever believed otherwise had serious issues. It would have helped if Murray hadn’t tried to moralize a declared murderer while sitting three feet away from him, though. But then….

“Stop it,” Michael snarled at himself.

He wasn’t thinking clearly. _Of course_ it would have been better if Joker had capped himself instead of anyone else, and better still if nobody lost their life. It was all different, completely different, no matter what his warped mind was trying to conflate. The killer was going to be locked in Arkham forever, as he should.

Michael wondered if there would even be a trial if the man was so clearly unhinged. Were his actions going to inspire anything other than brutal riots and a more brutal quelling of them? Copycats, God forbid? Or maybe, just maybe, an increase of awareness about mocking and dismissing the unstable without a care in the world?

He huffed a bitter laugh. The last option would happen right after hell had frozen over. People have been willingly turning a blind eye to even more horrific goings-on, and he knew better than most what those were _exactly_. Joker was going to be hailed as an evil monster who had spawned out of nothing and become the poster child of all things truly depraved.

Michael’s jaw tensed. Even after what he’s just seen, his mind’s ingrained perspective would not let him harbor terror for long.

He knew too much about real monsters.

**Author's Note:**

> A short chapter to get things going. I hope you'll be interested to read more! If you've noticed any grammatical mistakes please let me know, I'm not a native speaker and still make some. Others I might simply miss when editing.


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